they'll inherit your blood
by orangesparks
Summary: "Later, he carefully forgets the way her haunted eyes had fooled him, just for a moment." Enjolras misinterprets the nature of Marius and Éponine's relationship. (One-sided Enjolras/Éponine and Éponine/Marius.)


Lamarque is dead.

It is the sign they've all been waiting for. Although he has been carefully planning for so long, still his mind is reeling, the frantic whispers and cries and battle plans from every man becoming a soft roar as his mind sternly composes itself against it all. And he certainly should not be distracted by a sudden blur of movement across the room, but then Marius is gone from his side in a flash, and he glances over to see what's the matter.

A girl has appeared at the top of the stairs.

She is familiar, in the guarded expression on her face, the fall of dark hair over slight shoulders. It tugs insistently at his mind, a flicker of light in a dark alley, almost visible but frustratingly faint. Her questioning stare meets his for the barest of seconds before continuing to survey the room, eyes bright and sharp, curiosity matched only by his own.

Before he can ask her business, Marius is at the stairs, drawing near to her. He bends close to speak to her, and her whole face brightens, theirs the kind of proximity shared only between friends and lovers.

_(had you been there tonight, you might know how it feels to be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight-)_

It clicks into place with the shuddering force of a blow. Of _course_.

Here, in the flesh, is the reason for Pontmercy's infuriating turnaround.

And just like that, the girl darts down the stairs, silent as she came, but not before shooting an excited grin in her lover's direction. For his part, he is cautious in his movement when he looks up to meet Enjolras's eyes. But it is clear that he is not asking permission.

_This is my higher cause_, his widened eyes say, before he dashes after his dark-haired ghost.

Enjolras wants to scoff, but he is too tired. He can't chase him down, force him to follow; can't force _anyone_, despite what Grantaire might slyly infer over the bottle glued between his callused fingers.

(The people will rise on their own. They _must_. It is a discredit to both them and himself to not acknowledge that this will eventually happen.)

He had been expecting this girl of Marius's to be like any bourgeois woman, a pale China doll stuffed into layers of lace and satin (much the way a piece of sausage is stuffed into a biscuit) – not dressed in a dirty chemise that barely covers her thin shoulders and chest, looking more desiring of a scrap of bread than a scrap of silk.

(Later, he carefully forgets the way her haunted eyes had fooled him, just for a moment, into thinking that she was merely a grisette off the street who had heard the news of Lamarque, had wanted to let them know she would fiercely support their cause, with shelter or supplies or words.)

He supposes it is fitting.

* * *

It would surprise none of the Amis to know that Enjolras has never had a woman, has never even tried, so impassioned for only the cause – only _Patria_ – is he. There are the whiskey-fueled jeers from Grantaire, and the occasional glance of almost pity from Joly, but these reactions he brushes aside with little concern.

Yet later that night, attempting to claim sleep, a kind of dull fury still takes hold of him, blooming bitterly in his chest. Even though Marius has since found sense again, the fact that he was even _willing_ to abandon the cause for such frivolities, insinuating that Enjolras is only immune because he doesn't _know_ any better-

He lies there on his dingy mattress, a deep frown creasing his face. He must rest, gain strength for tomorrow.

But all that he can see when he closes his eyes are the blood red of the flag, the wretched faces of the people, and the sharp stare of the dark-haired gamine.

* * *

She helps build the barricade.

When he first spies her helping Joly carry a particularly large bench, he wonders if the stress and adrenaline are not merely making him hallucinate.

But beneath the dark cap and dirty coat, there is the gentle sway in her movement, the defiant flash of her eyes, and he recognizes her as well as he would any well-worn text studied at the university, knows that hidden beneath those boys' clothes are her frail little waist, the curve of her hips.

Yet before he can demand to know just what she is doing, what business she could possibly have in this place not meant for women (truthfully, not meant for _anyone_), there is a shout from Courfeyrac and he strides over purposefully, the strange girl and her borrowed identity forgotten.

There is too much to do.

* * *

The girl is dying in Marius's arms.

An unfamiliar feeling grows and tightens inside Enjolras's chest, twisting deep enough to almost be painful; he will later realize it is the ugly combination of fear and grief.

(It will soon become all too familiar.)

Her little fingers brush against Marius's cheek, tender and shaking. Smiling up at him, her dark eyes flicker shut, then open no more.

He swallows the knot in his throat and knows that the trickle of water sliding down his face is not only rain.

And he looks away.

He nods for Combeferre to assist him, and together, they lift her slight little body, her expression that of one who could be merely sleeping. Before he can decide where to move her, the other man, who is taller and broader than he, gathers her entirely into his arms and carries her resolutely away. Combeferre is practical in all other matters pertaining to life, and it should be no surprise that he is practical when it comes to death, too.

Enjolras almost collapses next to Marius, then, gripping one rain-soaked sleeve, avoiding the sorrow in his friend's eyes. He focuses, instead, on Combeferre's retreating form, the gentle sway of the corpse in his arms.

"Her name was Éponine," whispers Marius. "Her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid."

And these words are true. There had been no flicker of fear across her face before the life eventually fled from her eyes, only an expression of greatest joy. She was fighting not for revolution, but something entirely foreign to him – he knew this as keenly as her fingers had grasped, desperate and clumsy, at Marius's arm.

But he finds that he cannot scorn her sacrificial death for love, for the very thing he'd thought Marius so foolish for.

(She died no less bravely than any of them will.)

And it is with complete irony that this girl (such a perfect example of their cause, _his_ cause, that it makes him want to bitterly _laugh_) was the first casualty.

She fought for love, and they fight for justice. They fight for her.

Perhaps there is not so clear a distinction between the two as he'd previously thought.

Marius's face is numb with grief, but his shoulders are still contorted in small, shaking sobs. Enjolras's throat tightens. He won't, can't, tell him all of this. It will do no good, and he is not practiced in eulogies, refuses to become so. All he can manage in reply is cold truth.

"She was the first to fall upon this barricade."

The words are blunt, but spoken with the reverence of a hymn. Marius swallows hard, and nods.

She will not be betrayed.


End file.
